


to russia, with love

by lazulisong



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Further Tags as events warrant, Multi, Threesome, gaby teller rules the world, illya's life being horrible and full of dumb americans and short germans, pursuit of russians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4606767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulisong/pseuds/lazulisong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby had put her foot down, and even Illya understood that when Gaby's foot was planted, it was not for mere mortals as themselves to move it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to russia, with love

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna note right here that I did not expect to walk into a Guy Ritchie film and walk out shipping het and ot3 but weirder things have happened, I guess.

To be honest, Napoleon hadn't really planned on it either, not really: he had some vague idea of convincing Illya to defect, or at least convince his superiors that it was practical to leave him in the West. Illya was loyal, beyond a doubt, and his lack of convenient ties in Russia to threaten could be replaced by Gaby, or whatever girl he found in the West, if Illya had been foolish or lonely enough to find one. And he was very lonely. 

"He's being stupid," said Gaby, frowning down at Napoleon. "You should take responsibility."

Napoleon tried to respond but Gaby had a way of softening them up for important discussions by knocking the male chauvinist out of them and then sitting on their chests and refusing to move until they remembered how tiny and hateful she was. Napoleon had no problem shamelessly enjoying every second - the Red Peril, on the other hand, spent days after some sense had been knocked into his head lurking around looking betrayed and baffled and helplessly in love. 

It was a little charming.

Napoleon held up one finger and Gaby politely waited until the stars faded from Napoleon's vision and he could take a deeper breath.

"I don't know what you expect me to do about it," he said reasonably. "I'm not the one he wants to make sweet communist music with."

"No, you he wants to fuck," said Gaby. "Don't make that face at me, Solo. _You_ are not a stupid man. You know this."

"Men, though," said Napoleon. He wrinkled his nose. 

"Yes," agreed Gaby, with a sigh. She sat - and Napoleon lay - contemplating the agony of being attracted to masculine creatures, who were not soft and did not smell sweet, and who very rarely had long eyelashes, and hardly ever allowed one to take them masterfully and spend hours indulging in mutual pleasure. Especially Russian men, who were stubborn and pretended to be cold out of sheer pride, when it was perfectly obvious that they wanted more than anything to be cuddled up next to, and dote on you, and punch people who bothered you. 

Napoleon loved being doted on, and Gaby was always slightly chilly, and they both often needed people punched. It was obviously only logical that Illya gave up and let them keep him.

Try to tell that to Illya, though. 

It was a sheer waste and butchery, what the KGB had done to Illya: like making a wolf live by itself, without even a handler, and wondering why it was so crazy, or driving a sports car in one gear. It would be so easy too: one little word of praise or affection, one tiny little book to occupy his ravenously curious mind - even a math equation would have been enough. Illya would have been theirs, absolutely, with none of his loyalty tainted as it was now by the bitter consciousness of the disdain his superiors had for him. It was a crime not to steal him from Russia, if you asked Napoleon. 

Fortunately, Napoleon was practically reformed by now, nearly on the straight and narrow, and certainly noble enough for just this sort of undertaking.

"I suppose we could get him drunk," said Napoleon doubtfully. He put his hand on Gaby's thigh in a friendly sort of way, not really trying to start anything, only that it was there and Napoleon admired it.

"Hasn't touched so much as beer in a week," said Gaby. "Since _you_ got drunk and tried looking at him through your eyelashes."

"That usually works," said Napoleon, scowling for a minute. He hadn't been very drunk, just tipsy enough to flirt with every beautiful person he saw and try to take a run up at the most beautiful Russian in the room. (The most beautiful German in the room was, while not exactly a sure thing, at least willing to console him for the way the Russian had called him a drunk American degenerate and locked himself in his room. The most beautiful German, Napoleon was sure, was still stung by the way that Illya slunk around her like he was afraid his hand would be slapped away if he touched her.) "Why can't you look at him from under your eyelashes?"

"I have looked at him under my eyelashes," said Gaby, cross. "I have done everything, and every time I think I am close, _you_ walk in and he runs from me!"

"Sorry," said Napoleon, and absently slid his hand further up her thigh, just because it felt so nice, silky and warm above her stocking, and Gaby hissed between her teeth and leaned down, and just as they were about to start kissing, Illya walked in.

They stayed exactly as they were, a nice, frozen tableau, for at least thirty seconds, before Illya said, in a very Russian way, "I will get vodka and leave in peace," and marched straight out the door again. His ears and neck were visibly flushed by the time he closed the door. Napoleon wondered how far the flush burnt down Illya's throat and chest. 

Gaby dropped her head to Napoleon's chest and screamed into his suit jacket. Napoleon reached up and patted her head, but kept his other hand on her thigh. He liked it there.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I'm pretty sure this is just going to be ten thousand words of Illya trying to avoid being caught by the decadent West because omg KGB 
> 
> 2\. look you don't know my life.
> 
> 3\. How much of his own shit does Napoleon Solo believe? We just don't know.


End file.
